


It's not eavesdropping if you're shouting

by yamyamyam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Murder Husbands, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Sort Of, emotionally unavailable acrophiliac murder machines, ilu ao3, omg that is a real tag, sniper bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamyamyam/pseuds/yamyamyam
Summary: Clint is a little bit concussed, a little bit in love, and a whole lot done with Tony's snooping





	It's not eavesdropping if you're shouting

The thing about Natasha, Clint decides, is that she has no loyalty. Or too much loyalty. Definitely one of those.

They're on their way home from a mission when it happens. A mostly successful mission - another AIM cell rounded up and tied in a bright yellow package for the authorities - with the minor downside of Clint taking a graze to his side that distracted him long enough to sort of fall off a building a little bit. Tony had caught him, but not without Clint's head smacking in to the unforgiving iron chest of the suit. Apparently Tony had foreseen this possibility, because J.A.R.V.I.S. played a cartoonish tweeting bird sound effect from the suit's external speakers when he did. Clint is still torn on whether to tell on Tony to Steve about that - come on, stealth, anyone? - or say nothing and wait until Steve bonks _his_ super-head on the suit and gets the acme anvil sound effect treatment.

Natasha had taken over piloting the Quinjet for the return voyage after Clint answered "blue" when asked how many fingers she was holding up.

But that was hours ago, and this isn't his first concussion rodeo. Clint is FINE to pilot, and frankly ready to do anything to get out of this discussion with Tony. Why couldn't they have brought Bruce to distract Tony with science-bro talk? Or Steve to argue with him at least. But it was just one measly compound, Bruce had some lab thing going on that Clint immediately forgot the details of but which couldn't be interrupted, and Steve wanted to take some time off to go be nostalgic all over Brooklyn with Bucky, now that he was allowed out of the tower without risking extradition to a black site or being "volunteered" in to the special forces or getting parking tickets or whatever all was stacked up against him. Clint is glad they can go do their Brooklyn bro thing, has been sort of hoping Bucky might like to visit Bed-Stuy sometime, actually, and he should feel more grateful to Tony for all the lawyers he had provided to achieve this, but...

"Come on, come on! No special someone on the side? Spill, Barton, I want the goods. Pep's got me on a leash and I need vicarious playboy thrills."

"Nnnngnhh, Tony, you're the worst."

"You're blushing! Oh there IS something secret going on in your purple panties, isn't there."

Natasha cut in flatly with "Tony. If I ever hear you say "purple panties" again--" 

"...I will have possibly-fatal life regrets. Got it! Got it. No panties of any hue. No need to murder the man who pays for everything, everything's fine. Moving on."

"Are you." Nat's head hasn't turned around, but Clint knows for a fact that she has on her laser death glare, an expression only minutely different from her resting I-haven't-decided-whether-to-kill-you-yet-but-things-aren't-looking-good face. But Clint has known Natasha for a very long time, through a lot of very boring stake-outs with only a deck of cards and his ongoing attempts to translate dad jokes in to Russian to pass the time, and has therefore catalogued all of her flavours of exasperation. He's... good at bringing those out in people.

Tony turns back to Clint, a dog turning away from a statue of a steak behind a glass wall to a juicy hambone sitting unattended on the counter. "Ooookay, let's play hot and cold. Is it... that she-Hawkeye you're training?"

"Gross, no! Tony! She's like, 12."

"In Martian years maybe."

"It's not Katie, Tony."

"AHA! But it is SOMEONE!"

Clint can, has withstood torture. He is not going to crack. 

But then it happens. 

Natasha happens.

"Ask him if it's a co-worker." Nat's voice calls from the front as she brings the jet in for a textbook-perfect landing atop the Tower. Tony, already at the door unlock mechanism, whips his head back to Clint with a look of unadulterated glee.

"Oh my god, look at you, it IS."

"It is not!" Even Clint doesn't believe himself in that voice. He stomps down the ramp, through the door in to the common area, immediately regretting his stompiness as his head and side pound painfully in response.

"Is it ME? Oh Pep's gonna be jealous, but who can blame you--"

"No, it's not you." Clint pulls up a chair and angrily unties his boots. Clint didn't know you could angrily unlace something, but here he is.

"Is it Steeeeeve? I mean that All-American beef, it's a class--"

"Oh for... it's BUCKY, all right? Are you happy Tony? ARE YOU HAPPY NAT? IT'S BUCKY." Clint didn't maybe mean to say it that loud, but fuck it, it's been a long day and he feels pretty put out by Natasha (a) seeing right through him, and (b) betraying him, to (c) Tony.

Tony makes a choking sound, maybe not expecting a real answer, or maybe just trying to decide between 18 different mocking replies.

Natasha levitates up to sit on the kitchen counter in that terrifyingly graceful way she has, produces a blood-red apple from nowhere, and takes a loud crunching bite that echoes in the room, punctuating Clint's sudden lack of verbal bladder control. 

Tony, who has been sputtering wordlessly up until this point, recovers use of his voice.

"Oh my god, of course it's him. Why not pair off two emotionally-unavailable acrophiliac murder-machines, what could go wrong." 

Tony's look of smug, teasing glee has changed to a mix of horror and wonder at an incomprehensible universe that could allow this to happen.

Clint frowns. "I'm not a murder machine!"

"As for me..." 

Bucky is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen with one eyebrow raised eloquently, and oh god, of course he's there, why would any part of this day not be a disaster for Clint.

"I'm a little iffy about heights, now that you mention it." Bucky raises his right hand and knocks on his metal shoulder significantly. Clint cringes. 

"But you can't argue with the numbers. We do kind of... rain a lot of death from above."

Clint is unprepared for this comment. Clint is unprepared for Bucky being in this room. Clint is unprepared for _ever speaking to Bucky again_. Clint is... Okay, Clint has to admit that "Clint is unprepared" can describe just about every significant relationship milestone in his life up until this point, but this one seems unusually fraught. Maybe because of the murder? Although Bobbi... 

Natasha hops down from the counter. "I'm not sure why you're acting so surprised, Tony. It's been obvious for months."

Clint looks up from his mental murder math. "Wait, months? How did you... what... Tasha, wait!"

Not deigning to respond to this, Natasha snags Tony's arm on her way out of the room without breaking stride, hauling his complaining but unresisting form out in to the elevator lobby with her. The door closes behind her gently, almost noiselessly, as if afraid of what would happen if it pissed her off. Clint can relate.

Bucky's raised eyebrow has not moved in minutes. Bucky's eyebrow is snugged in to its sniper nest and can remain raised for _hours_ if necessary. Clint breaks after about 30 seconds of panic.

"I... ah... I don't know how much of that you heard, but--"

"Clint."

"--I mean, I just want to apolo--"

"Clint."

"--I'll understand if you want me to, to, stay away from the--"

"CLINT."

Clint looks up, trying to remember how to use both eyeballs as a team. Keep it together, Hawkeye.

"Clint. We don't have to talk about this."

"We... we don't? We don't! Well that's... that's... that's good! We... it's..." Clint runs out of words, unable to untangle whether he is relieved or disappointed by this disclosure. Relieved, right? This would be so awkward if-- just-- 

Clint's chest is pretty tight for someone as relieved as he obviously must be.

"Yeah, let's.. not.. okay, we can..."

"...as long as you are kissing me, we don't need to talk."

Right! Because his mouth would be, yes, this makes sense. This is very logical. This can work. This... "What."

Bucky visibly gives up on Clint's English comprehension skills, considers and rejects the idea of trying in Russian, and instead strides forward, catching Clint's chin with a gentle finger and trying to communicate his intentions in Eyebrow. He looks... fond. Is this.. is this really..? But Eyebrow is not a subtle language and Clint is starting to get the hint.

"I heard enough," Bucky adds gently. "Stop me if I'm reading this all wrong, but..." and they're kissing. 

Clint has kissed before. Plenty, from a fumbling first kiss behind a circus tent to keeping up his cover in a tuxedo, to his actual-fax marriage, and many, many kisses in between. He is a grown-up man and can totally be smooth. So he definitely knows what to do with his hands right now, and isn't nervously moving them to almost rest on a hip, or Bucky's lower back, only to flit back to a shoulder and is that his _tongue_ oh my god. He abandons his hands to... play patty-cake or rock paper scissors or whatever it is they've decided on... and concentrates on kissing back. 

Bucky lets go of a tension Clint hadn't noticed until it was gone, and, languid, brings his other hand up to cup Clint's face, and oh. Oh yes. This _is._ They break for breath and he rests his forehead against Clint's, whispering "Now ain't that better than a lot of jabber?"

Clint, wide-eyed, nods. He can feel the big foolish grin his face is making without his input and doesn't care one bit. "Hey, Bucky?" "Mm?" "Wanna... not talk some more?"

Bucky smiles back, and looks Clint up and down appreciatively, before leaning in close, pressing a kiss to his temple, and murmuring in his ear: "Sure. After you go to medical," with a pointed jab in Clint's side next to the, oh yeah, blood seeping around his body armour.

"Aw, medical, no."

=====

A few hours later, Clint is disgorged from medical with his side patched up, stitches to a wound on his arm he didn't even notice receiving, the inevitable nose bandage as he has it reset, AGAIN, and having received a stern admonishment to treat his concussed head gently. He totters out in the custody of a very amused Bucky.

"Heyyyyyy Bucky?"

"What."

"Wanna go to the range and rain some death from above?"

Bucky closes his eyes briefly and huffs a soft laugh. "Maybe when you're a little less medicated, pal."

"But murderrrrrrr."

Bucky laughs and picks Clint up bodily, slinging him over one shoulder, careful of his side if not his dignity. He walks toward the elevator, stopping when they reach Clint's floor to deposit him gently on his bed. Clint tries to stay focused, but has already nodded off by the time Bucky returns with a glass of water. 

=====

Clint awakens disoriented, his ears itchy and unhappy where his aids have been pressing on them, his head pillowed on something firm.

"Morning, sunshine." A thick, warm thigh shifts slightly under Clint's head, and a metal hand sets down a novel as Bucky's face swims in to view.

"Bucky?"

"You snore pretty loud for such a sneaky guy, you know."

"How long was I..."

"Mm... 15? 16? hours?"

"Shit." 

"Yeah, It's almost like you have a serious wound and a concussion to heal."

Clint sticks out his tongue in reply. "Did.. did you wait here this whole time?"

"I don't know if you realize, but I'm a sniper. We're good at waiting. And you, sweetheart" he trails off, leaning down to press a kiss to Clint's forehead, "are worth waiting for."

**Author's Note:**

> Tony sends them a bunch of purple panties in congratulations once they're officially dating. Bucky, an oldschool troll, writes a thank you letter with exquisite penmanship describing in graphic detail the uses he makes of them, and then a follow-up letter asking for stain-removal advice.
> 
> =====
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/yamtimesthree), yellin' about Bucky usually.


End file.
